11

English for Academic and

Professional Purposes
Quarter – Module 6
Critical Approaches in
Writing A Critique
English for Academic and Professional Purposes – Grade 11
Quarter – Module 6: Critical Approaches in Writing a Critique
First Edition, 2020

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Published by the Department of Education

Development Team of the Module

Writer: Glaiza Mae G. Palmero-Pedro A. Arches National High School
Editor:
Reviewer: Ruben F. Asan, PhD
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Template Developer: Neil Edward D. Diaz
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Printed in the Philippines by Learning Resource Management Section

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 11

English for
Academic and
Professional
Purposes
Quarter – Module 6
Critical Approaches in
Writing a Critique
Introductory Message
For the facilitator:

Welcome to school year 2020-2021! This module in English for

Academic and Professional Purposes is designed to assist you and the
learners to meet the standards of the K to 12 curriculum, which aims to
produce holistically developed individuals who are equipped to face global
challenges.
This learning module incorporates the Most Essential Learning
Competencies (MELCs). It presents a systematic program of study that a
learner has to learn in a specific competency per learning area. It maintains
a coherent link between concepts and practice by providing various learning
activities to illustrate and test theoretical concepts.
With this ‘new normal,’ the use of this module seeks to deliver the
curriculum content right at the learners’ doorsteps. This learning material
intends to guide learners into accomplishing the different activities, in their
own pace and time. Further, this also aims to hone abilities required towards
mastering 21st century skills.
As a facilitator, you are expected to guide the learners on the use of this
module and its different parts (activities, assessments, discussions and task-
based activities) and be able to track their progress by letting them manage
their own learning. Please be reminded that in accomplishing the pre-tests,
self- check exercises, and posttests, separate sheets are to be used.

For the learner:

Welcome to another school year! This module is designed for the

purpose of providing you with enjoyable yet informative and meaningful
learning activities that you are going to accomplish in your own pace and
time. In this module, you will be able to encounter the different activities that
will scaffold your learning in academic writing.

Icons of this Module

Let Us Learn! This part contains the competencies and

. lesson objective/s that you are expected
to learn.

Let Us Try! This part serves as you’re pre-test to

check what you already know about the
lesson.
ii
 Let Us Study! In this section, the lesson is introduced
in various ways, such as: story, poem,
problem opener, activity or situation
which will aid in you in developing
higher order thinking skills.

This section also provides a brief

discussion of the lesson which aims to
help you discover and understand new
concepts and skills.

Let Us Practice! This portion comprises

Help you discoverthe activities that
and
allow understand
you to perform
new independent
practice leading you to strengthen your
understanding
Concepts andof skills.
the concepts
presented.

Let Us Practice More! This part provides varied activities to

deepen your knowledge or skill of the
lesson.

Let Us Remember! This section is the

generalization/summary of the lesson/s
you have learned. This part may include
questions, blank sentences or
paragraphs that assesses the things you
have learned from the discussion.

This contains activities that will help you

Let Us Assess!
transfer new knowledge or skill gained
into real-life situations. This serves as
an evaluation.

Let Us Enhance In this section, additional activities will

be given to enrich your knowledge or
skill about what you have learned from
the lesson.
Let Us Reflect This part contains your reflection about
the lesson as well as the things you
have gained and learned from the
content of this module.

iii
At the last part of the module, you will find:

This contains the list of all sources

References used in developing this module.

Reminders as you use this module:

• Handle this module with care. Avoid unnecessary markings in any

parts of this module. Use separate sheets of paper in answering the
activities.
• Don’t forget to answer “Let Us Try” before moving on to other
activities.
• Read the instructions carefully before doing each task.
• Observe honesty and integrity in answering /performing the tasks and
in checking your answers.
• Finish each task before continuing to the next activity.
• Return this module to your teacher or facilitator on the assigned
schedule.

Remember that this self- learning material aims to enhance your skills
in using appropriate critical approaches in writing a critique. If you encounter
any difficulty in answering the activities in this module, please consult your
teacher or facilitator. They are more than willing to assist you.

It is hoped that through this learning material, you will be able to

encounter meaningful learning experiences and gain deeper understanding of
the relevant competencies.

Good luck!

iv
 Let Us Learn!

Most Essential Learning Competency (MELC)

Ø Uses appropriate critical approaches in writing a critique such as

formalism, feminism, etc. (CS_EN11/12A-EAPP-ld-f-16).

In this module, you will have been able to identify critical approaches
in writing a critique, evaluate and analyze a literary work, and critique a
material based on its technical aspects, its approach to gender, political
correctness and audience reaction and portrayal. This module will allow you
to go beyond reading and rediscover the purpose of criticism in academic
writing. In addition, this will help you enrich your understanding of a literary
work.

Let Us Try!

Task 1: Find it Out!

Directions: Write T if the statement is true and F if it is false.

_______1. Feminist criticism relates to conflicts between classes.
_______2. Marxist criticism involves the analysis of the intrinsic features of a
text.
_______3. More than half of a review or critique should be devoted to the
summary.
_______4. Writing a critique involves higher order thinking skills.
_______5. Writing a critique is exclusive for scholars.

Let Us Study
Task 2: Read and Tell!
Directions: The short story below is a masterpiece of a Filipina short-story
writer, educator, and editor. Her work of art has paved the way to the
development of Philippine literature.

DEAD STARS
Paz Marquez Benitez

THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed

into his room, quietly enveloping him, stealing into his very
thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made of
life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to
crush–they lost concreteness, diffused into formless
melancholy. The tranquil murmur of conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea
where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering away among the rose pots.
“Papa, and when will the ‘long table’ be set?”
“I don’t know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it
to be next month.”
Carmen sighed impatiently. “Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over
thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting.”
“She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either,” Don Julian nasally commented,
while his rose scissors busily snipped away.
“How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?” Carmen
returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. “Papa, do you
remember how much in love he was?”
“In love? With whom?”
“With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of,” she
said with good-natured contempt. “What I mean is that at the beginning he was
enthusiastic–flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that–”
Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was
less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger
that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one
quiet night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees
in the plaza, man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love–he seemed to have
missed it. Or was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid
imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid
monotonies such as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances,
or sheer native capacity of soul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal
puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he divined it might be.
Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days,
the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when
something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time
to see. “Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it,” someone had seemed to urge in his ears.
So he had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while
in the way of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very
much engaged to Esperanza.
Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so
many. Greed–the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to
squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but
half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving
for immediate excitement. Greed–mortgaging the future–forcing the hand of Time, or
of Fate.
“What do you think happened?” asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.
“I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they
are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to
prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament–or of affection–on the part of
either, or both.” Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident
relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. “That
phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see
it, was Alfredo’s last race with escaping youth–”
Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother’s perfect physical repose–almost
indolence–disturbed in the role suggested by her father’s figurative language.
“A last spurt of hot blood,” finished the old man.
Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had
amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall
and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that verged on grace. Under straight
recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer’s
eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips–indeed Alfredo Salazar’s appearance
betokened little of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a
fastidious artist with keen, clear brain.
He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps;
then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate
which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel road
bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom.
The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open
porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez
yard.
Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez house,
rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas
meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now–
One evening he had gone “neighboring” with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence,
since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge.
This particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. “A little
mental relaxation now and then is beneficial,” the old man had said. “Besides, a
judge’s good will, you know;” the rest of the thought–“is worth a rising young lawyer’s
trouble”–Don Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own
worldly wisdom.
A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the
Judge’s children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic
Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted–the judge limiting himself to a
casual “Ah, ya se conocen?”–with the consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del
Valle throughout the evening.
He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed
her thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge’s sister, as he
had supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very
dignified rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have
corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain.
To his apology, she replied, “That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct you,
but I remembered a similar experience I had once before.”
“Oh,” he drawled out, vastly relieved.
“A man named Manalang–I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, the
young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, ‘Pardon me, but my name is
Manalang, Manalang.’ You know, I never forgave him!”
He laughed with her.
“The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out,” she pursued, “is
to pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help.”
“As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I–”
“I was thinking of Mr. Manalang.”
Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of
chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory
conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered
porch. The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as
the player’s moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could
sing; she had such a charming speaking voice.
He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a
sister of the Judge’s wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She
was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately
modeled hips–a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a
likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and
lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of
crimson which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.
On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel
road to the house on the hill. The Judge’s wife invariably offered them beer, which
Don Julian enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would
be brought out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She
sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours–warm, quiet March
hours–sped by. He enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his
company; yet what feeling there was between them was so undisturbed that it
seemed a matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly
about those visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.
Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly
realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to come out
of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go “neighboring.”
He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually
untruthful, added, “Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle’s.”
She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies.
She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate
feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his wife;
if he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman.
That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving
Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something
that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on.
It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and
so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows
around, enfolding.
“Up here I find–something–”
He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted
intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, “Amusement?”
“No; youth–its spirit–”
“Are you so old?”
“And heart’s desire.”
Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?
“Down there,” he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, “the road is too
broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery.”
“Down there” beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In
the darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from
somewhere, bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream.
“Mystery–” she answered lightly, “that is so brief–”
“Not in some,” quickly. “Not in you.”
“You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery.”
“I could study you all my life and still not find it.”
“So long?”
“I should like to.”
Those six weeks were now so swift–seeming in the memory, yet had they been so
deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither
the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by
day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in
his calmer moments.
Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend Sunday
afternoon at Tanda where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the beach.
Carmen also came with her four energetic children. She and Doña Adela spent most
of the time indoors directing the preparation of the merienda and discussing the
likeable absurdities of their husbands–how Carmen’s Vicente was so absorbed in his
farms that he would not even take time off to accompany her on this visit to her
father; how Doña Adela’s Dionisio was the most absentminded of men, sometimes
going out without his collar, or with unmatched socks.
After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him what a
thriving young coconut looked like–“plenty of leaves, close set, rich green”–while the
children, convoyed by Julia Salas, found unending entertainment in the rippling
sand left by the ebbing tide. They were far down, walking at the edge of the water,
indistinctly outlined against the gray of the out-curving beach.
Alfredo left his perch on the bamboo ladder of the house and followed. Here were her
footsteps, narrow, arched. He laughed at himself for his black canvas footwear which
he removed forthwith and tossed high up on dry sand.
When he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasure.
“I hope you are enjoying this,” he said with a questioning inflection.
“Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do not have such a lovely beach.”
There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away from her forehead, and
whipped the tucked-up skirt around her straight, slender figure. In the picture was
something of eager freedom as of wings poised in flight. The girl had grace,
distinction. Her face was not notably pretty; yet she had a tantalizing charm, all the
more compelling because it was an inner quality, an achievement of the spirit. The
lure was there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful,
sunny temper, and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm.
“The afternoon has seemed very short, hasn’t it?” Then, “This, I think, is the last
time–we can visit.”
“The last? Why?”
“Oh, you will be too busy perhaps.”
He noted an evasive quality in the answer.
“Do I seem especially industrious to you?”
“If you are, you never look it.”
“Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy man ought to be.”
“But–”
“Always unhurried, too unhurried, and calm.” She smiled to herself.
“I wish that were true,” he said after a meditative pause.
She waited.
“A man is happier if he is, as you say, calm and placid.”
“Like a carabao in a mud pool,” she retorted perversely
“Who? I?”
“Oh, no!”
“You said I am calm and placid.”
“That is what I think.”
“I used to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves.”
It was strange to him that he could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert
phrase.
“I should like to see your home town.”
“There is nothing to see–little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on
them, and sometimes squashes.”
That was the background. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet withal
more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him.
“Nothing? There is you.”
“Oh, me? But I am here.”
“I will not go, of course, until you are there.”
“Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn’t even one American there!”
“Well–Americans are rather essential to my entertainment.”
She laughed.
“We live on Calle Luz, a little street with trees.”
“Could I find that?”
“If you don’t ask for Miss del Valle,” she smiled teasingly.
“I’ll inquire about–”
“What?”
“The house of the prettiest girl in the town.”
“There is where you will lose your way.” Then she turned serious. “Now, that is not
quite sincere.”
“It is,” he averred slowly, but emphatically.
“I thought you, at least, would not say such things.”
“Pretty–pretty–a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean
that quite–”
“Are you withdrawing the compliment?”
“Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is pretty when it pleases the eye–it is more than
that when–”
“If it saddens?” she interrupted hastily.
“Exactly.”
“It must be ugly.”
“Always?”
Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting
streamer of crimsoned gold.
“No, of course you are right.”
“Why did you say this is the last time?” he asked quietly as they turned back.
“I am going home.”
The end of an impossible dream!
“When?” after a long silence.
“Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday. They want me to
spend Holy Week at home.”
She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. “That is why I said this is the last time.”
“Can’t I come to say good-bye?”
“Oh, you don’t need to!”
“No, but I want to.”
“There is no time.”
The golden streamer was withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a
pool far away at the rim of the world. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses
as does solemn harmony; a peace that is not contentment but a cessation of tumult
when all violence of feeling tones down to the wistful serenity of regret. She turned
and looked into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset sadness.
“Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another life.”
“I know. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things.”
“Old things?”
“Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage.” He said it lightly, unwilling
to mar the hour. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling
second.
Don Julian’s nasal summons came to them on the wind.
Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. At his touch, the girl turned her face
away, but he heard her voice say very low, “Good-bye.”
II
ALFREDO Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and
entered the heart of the town–heart of Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs,
of indolent drug stores and tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing establishments, and
a cluttered goldsmith’s cubbyhole where a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens;
heart of old brick-roofed houses with quaint hand-and-ball knockers on the door;
heart of grass-grown plaza reposeful with trees, of ancient church and convento, now
circled by swallows gliding in flight as smooth and soft as the afternoon itself. Into
the quickly deepening twilight, the voice of the biggest of the church bells kept ringing
its insistent summons. Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, young
women in vivid apparel (for this was Holy Thursday and the Lord was still alive), older
women in sober black skirts. Came too the young men in droves, elbowing each other
under the talisay tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paper lanterns
were again on display while from the windows of the older houses hung colored glass
globes, heirlooms from a day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil were the
chief lighting device.
Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and uncoiled down the length
of the street like a huge jewelled band studded with glittering clusters where the
saints’ platforms were. Above the measured music rose the untutored voices of the
choir, steeped in incense and the acrid fumes of burning wax.
The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows
suddenly destroyed the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light into
component individuals. Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware,
and could not.
The line moved on.
Suddenly, Alfredo’s slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly. A girl was coming
down the line–a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause
violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life.
Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop.
The line kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and then
back again, where, according to the old proverb, all processions end.
At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the
choir, whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of
the procession.
A round orange moon, “huge as a winnowing basket,” rose lazily into a clear sky,
whitening the iron roofs and dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along the still
densely shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered
and, maybe, took the longest way home.
Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The
crowd had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther
out. It was past eight, and Esperanza would be expecting him in a little while: yet the
thought did not hurry him as he said “Good evening” and fell into step with the girl.
“I had been thinking all this time that you had gone,” he said in a voice that was both
excited and troubled.
“No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go.”
“Oh, is the Judge going?”
“Yes.”
The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had been assigned
elsewhere. As lawyer–and as lover–Alfredo had found that out long before.
“Mr. Salazar,” she broke into his silence, “I wish to congratulate you.”
Her tone told him that she had learned, at last. That was inevitable.
“For what?”
“For your approaching wedding.”
Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not offend?
“I should have offered congratulations long before, but you know mere visitors are
slow about getting the news,” she continued.
He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He heard
nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal tones of early
acquaintance. No revelation there; simply the old voice–cool, almost detached from
personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song.
“Are weddings interesting to you?” he finally brought out quietly
“When they are of friends, yes.”
“Would you come if I asked you?”
“When is it going to be?”
“May,” he replied briefly, after a long pause.
“May is the month of happiness they say,” she said, with what seemed to him a shade
of irony.
“They say,” slowly, indifferently. “Would you come?”
“Why not?”
“No reason. I am just asking. Then you will?”
“If you will ask me,” she said with disdain.
“Then I ask you.”
“Then I will be there.”
The gravel road lay before them; at the road’s end the lighted windows of the house
on the hill. There swept over the spirit of Alfredo Salazar a longing so keen that it
was pain, a wish that, that house were his, that all the bewilderments of the present
were not, and that this woman by his side were his long wedded wife, returning with
him to the peace of home.
“Julita,” he said in his slow, thoughtful manner, “did you ever have to choose between
something you wanted to do and something you had to do?”
“No!”
“I thought maybe you had had that experience; then you could understand a man
who was in such a situation.”
“You are fortunate,” he pursued when she did not answer.
“Is–is this man sure of what he should do?”
“I don’t know, Julita. Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and
rushes downward of its own weight, dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask
whether one will or will not, because it no longer depends on him.”
“But then why–why–” her muffled voice came. “Oh, what do I know? That is his
problem after all.”
“Doesn’t it–interest you?”
“Why must it? I–I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house.”
Without lifting her eyes she quickly turned and walked away.
Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope
trembled in his mind though set against that hope were three years of engagement,
a very near wedding, perfect understanding between the parents, his own conscience,
and Esperanza herself–Esperanza waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza
the efficient, the literal-minded, the intensely acquisitive.
He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a kind
of aversion which he tried to control.
She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable
appearance. She never surprised one with unexpected homeliness nor with startling
reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the street, she was always herself, a
woman past first bloom, light and clear of complexion, spare of arms and of breast,
with a slight convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with self-conscious care, even
elegance; a woman distinctly not average.
She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something about
Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened,
understanding imperfectly. At a pause he drawled out to fill in the gap: “Well, what
of it?” The remark sounded ruder than he had intended.
“She is not married to him,” Esperanza insisted in her thin, nervously pitched voice.
“Besides, she should have thought of us. Nanay practically brought her up. We never
thought she would turn out bad.”
What had Calixta done? Homely, middle-aged Calixta?
“You are very positive about her badness,” he commented dryly. Esperanza was
always positive.
“But do you approve?”
“Of what?”
“What she did.”
“No,” indifferently.
“Well?”
He was suddenly impelled by a desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her mind.
“All I say is that it is not necessarily wicked.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? You talked like an–immoral man. I did not know that your
ideas were like that.”
“My ideas?” he retorted, goaded by a deep, accumulated exasperation. “The only test
I wish to apply to conduct is the test of fairness. Am I injuring anybody? No? Then I
am justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a man to whom she is not
married–is that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not.”
“She has injured us. She was ungrateful.” Her voice was tight with resentment.
“The trouble with you, Esperanza, is that you are–” he stopped, appalled by the
passion in his voice.
“Why do you get angry? I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you have
been indifferent to me lately. I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps
some are trying to keep from me.” The blood surged into his very eyes and his hearing
sharpened to points of acute pain. What would she say next?
“Why don’t you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need not think of me and
of what people will say.” Her voice trembled.
Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What
people will say–what will they not say? What don’t they say when long engagements
are broken almost on the eve of the wedding?
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, diffidently, as if merely thinking aloud, “one tries to be
fair–according to his lights–but it is hard. One would like to be fair to one’s self first.
But that is too easy, one does not dare–”
“What do you mean?” she asked with repressed violence. “Whatever my
shortcomings, and no doubt they are many in your eyes, I have never gone out of my
way, of my place, to find a man.”
Did she mean by this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was
that a covert attack on Julia Salas?
“Esperanza–” a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. “If you–suppose I–” Yet
how could a mere man word such a plea?
“If you mean you want to take back your word, if you are tired of–why don’t you tell
me you are tired of me?” she burst out in a storm of weeping that left him completely
shamed and unnerved.
The last word had been said.
III
AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the
lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his.
He was supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine
Islands vs. Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy
had not been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman.
That the search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas’
home should not disturb him unduly Yet he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of
proportion to the prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to
him; in the last eight years he had become used to such occasional storms. He had
long realized that he could not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and
not to remember too much. The climber of mountains who has known the back-
break, the lonesomeness, and the chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths
made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk
of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time,
he would cease even to look up.
He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of
capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of
character. His life had simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up
of emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he
derived a strange solace. The essential himself, the himself that had its being in the
core of his thought, would, he reflected, always be free and alone. When claims
encroached too insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner
fastness, and from that vantage he saw things and people around him as remote and
alien, as incidents that did not matter. At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and
helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.
Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted town
nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside the
ancient church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the
sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the
hills. There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the
sky yielded to the darker blues of evening.
The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on
the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled
to meet the boat–slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore
speech. From where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of
knowing whether the presidente was there to meet him or not. Just then a voice
shouted.
“Is the abogado there? Abogado!”
“What abogado?” someone irately asked.
That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing.
It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. The presidente had left with
Brigida Samuy–Tandang “Binday”–that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar’s second
letter had arrived late, but the wife had read it and said, “Go and meet the abogado
and invite him to our house.”
Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since
the boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So the presidente had received
his first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer.
“Yes,” the policeman replied, “but he could not write because we heard that Tandang
Binday was in San Antonio so we went there to find her.”
San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do
something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.
Eight o’clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a
somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare
to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town.
His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry
piles driven into the water.
How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light
issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. An occasional
couple sauntered by, the women’s chinelas making scraping sounds. From a distance
came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street–tubigan perhaps, or
“hawk-and-chicken.” The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with a
pitying sadness.
How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to
her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a
sense of incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married–
why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It
was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability.
Irrelevant trifles–a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a
dream–at times moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent,
unfinished prayer.
A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon
wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw its
angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock’s
first call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz.
Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would
surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The
house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable
relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.
“Good evening,” he said, raising his hat.
“Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?”
“On some little business,” he answered with a feeling of painful constraint.
“Won’t you come up?”
He considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the
window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs
with a lighted candle to open the door. At last–he was shaking her hand.
She had not changed much–a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something
had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark
eyes. She asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat
meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder
that he should be there at all. He could not take his eyes from her face. What had
she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze.
The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush.
Gently–was it experimentally?–he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt
undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly
interested him.
The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-
studded sky.
So that was all over.
Why had he obstinately clung to that dream?
So all these years–since when?–he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long
extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.
An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some
immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where
live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.
(Retrieved: https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/stars.htm)

Thoughts to Ponder!

Did you like the story? Why or why not?

Which part of the story did you like best? Why?
Which part did you not like? Why?

While a reader may have different points of view about a certain story,
there are actually various ways or standpoints by which a reader can analyze
and critique a material.
Task 2. 1 Let’s Talk

Ma’am Palmero’s Class

Student: Excuse me Ma’am Palmero.

Teacher: Yes, Keane Lorenz.
Student: I am quite curious about what critiquing
means.
Teacher: Keane, a critique is “a critical essay or
commentary especially in literary work, arts,
films, plays, performances and the likes.
Student: Hmmmm..
Teacher: Don’t worry. I’ll show you what I mean.
Student: Okay Ma’am.
Teacher: When someone critiques a person’s
work, it means they are examining it very
closely, looking at what is good about it,
and what should be improved. That person
might also decide what a literary work,
painting or drawing means.
Student: Will it not be able to offend an artist or a
writer?
Teacher: A critique isn’t meant to be mean, it’s
something that helps an artist to get
better.
Student: Oh! I see. I’m a bit excited to try critiquing
now because I want to be better with what I
do and I also want to examine someone’s
work too.
Teacher: Sure! Let’s talk about its types first as
explained by Barrot and Sipacio (2016).

Source: https://depositphotos.com/2583991/stock-photo-
cartoon-teacher-woman.html
Types of Critique
-claims that literary works contain intrinsic
properties and treat each work as a distinct
work of art. It short, it posits that the key
understanding a text is through the text
itself.; the historical context, the author, or
any other external contexts are not necessary
in interpreting the meaning.

Aspects to looked into in formalism:

-Author's technique in resolving

contradictions within the work.

Formalism -Central passage that sums up the

entirety of the work.
- Contribution of the parts and the work as
a whole to its aethetic quality.
- Contribution of rhymes and rhythms to
the meaning or effect of the work.
-Relationship of the form and content
-Use of imagery to develop the symbols
used on the work.
-Interconnnectedness of various parts of
the work.
-Paradoz, ambuguity, and irony in the
work
-Unity in the work.
Formalist critique on Dead Stars
The title of the work already gives an idea as to what it means. In
physics, it is stated that the light and energy of the stars have to travel light
years to reach us. Since they are millions of miles away and light has to
travel this large distance, it is highly possible that the star has already
exploded while its light is still travelling towards us. Therefore, it is possible
that the bright light we see at night actually comes from a dead star. In the
story, this metaphor is used to refer to Alfredo’s love for Julia, a woman he
meets and falls for one fateful summer. Not only is the title an indicator of
what is to come, even the fate of the characters in the story can only be
seen through their names. Alfredo’s name means counselor of elves in
Spanish and suggest someone to who is wise. In the story, it is indicated
that Alfredo is a lawyer, a person who counsels. Still, his name denotes a
certain irony; despite his supposed wisdom, Alfredo’s actions, especially his
covert courtship with Julia while being engaged to another, are anything
but sensible. Julia’s name, on the other hand, refers to someone who is
youthful, which is how Alfredo sees her for eight years until he is confronted
by reality (Barrot & Sipacio, 2016, p.140)).

-this type of critique focuses on how

literature presents women as subject
Focuses on how literature presents
women as subjects of socio-political,
psychological, and economic
oppression.
-also reveals how aspects of our culture
are patriarchal, i.e., how our culture
views men as superior and women as
inferior.

Common aspects looked into when

using feminism:

Feminism -How culture determines gender.

-How gender equality (or lack of it)
is presented in the text.
-How gender issues are presented
in literary works and other
aspects of human production
and daily life.
-How women are socially,
politically, psychologically,
and economically oppressed
by patriarchy.
-How patriarchal ideology is an
overpowering presence.
 Feminist critique on Dead Stars

The story is a study of power imbalance brought about by gender.

In the beginning, Dead Stars already clearly illustrates the gender roles
ingrained in Filipino society: Don Julian and the judge are portrayed as
the male leaders on the household, taking up lofty professions such as
business and law while the women are portrayed accomplishing domestic
tasks such as tending to children and preparing food. The most note-
worthy display of imbalance in power, however, lies in the central theme
of Alfredo’s love for Julia as simply as a dead star. Eight years after their
forbidden love and after getting married to another woman, Alfredo still
holds Julia as an object of affection, thus creating a distance between him
and his wife, Esperanza. In their relationship as a wedded couple, the
power lies in Alfredo, not only because patriarchal society designates him
as the head of the household, but also he remains unreachable to his wife
by harboring feelings for another woman. Moreover, the realization that
his love of Julia as simply an illusion and an object of affection, and not
as a woman. This gender imbalance leads to a tragic epiphany for the
characters, but is also a reflection of how men are viewed to dominate not
only the household but also in their relationship with women (Barrot &
Sipacio, 2016, p.141).

-concerned with differences between

economic classes and implications of a
capitalist system, such as the
continuing conflicts between the
working class and elite. Hence, it
attempts to reveal that the ultimate
source of people’s experience is the
socio-economic system.

Marxism
Common aspect looked into when using
Marxist criticism are as follows:
- Social class as represented in the
work.
- Social class of the writer/creator.
- Social class of the characters.
-Conflicts and interactions between
economic classes.
 Sample Marxist critique on Dead Stars

The imbalanced of societal power play is evident in the short

story in the form of the treatment of the characters based on their class.
This is most easily evident in the conversation between Alfredo and his
fiancée, Ezperanza, about Calixta, their note-carrier who grew up in the
latter’s family. The scene depicts a parallelism in the circumstance of
Alfredo and his new love, Julia, and Calixta and her live-in partner.
However, while no one blatantly frowns upon the budding relationship
between Alfredo and Julia, except for some whispered rumors that
reach Esperanza, Calixta is dubbed “ungrateful” to her master for doing
such an act. Alfredo does not have to answer to anyone for his
unfaithfulness, but Calixta is responsible not only for what her family
might think, but also for the members of her master’s family. Despite
the same circumstances, the two people are regarded differently based
on their positions in life (Barrot & Sipacio, 2016, p.142).

-concerned with the reviewer's

reaction as an audience of a work.
This approach claims that reader's
role cannot be separated form the
understanding of the work; a text
does not have meaning until the
reader reads it and interprets it.

Reader response Common aspects looked into when

criticism using reader response criticism.

-intereaction between the reader and

the text in creating meaning.
- The impact of reader's delivery of
sounds and visuls on
enhancing and changing
meaning.
 Sample reader response critique of Dead Stars

Despite being limited in length, Dead Stars manages to evoke

feelings which ultimately build up the ending. While Alfredo is the
center of the story, as a woman reader, it is hard not to feel greatly
for Esperanza. Esperanza can only be seen through the perspective
of Alfredo. This does a disservice to her, as we can only know her
through the description of someone who does not love her anymore.
Still, it is also through Alfredo’s description and his unfaithfulness
that Esperanza gain sympathy from the reader. During all the
moments when Alfredo and Julia are together, the thought of
Esperanza looms in the background-does she know? How will she
react? What will happen now? The sympathy only increases when
they get married, for it is clear that Alfredo is detached from her and
is still harboring feelings for Julia. While the end certainly evokes a
feeling of loss at Alfredo’s epiphany, it is the feeling of betrayal for
Esperanza that stays (Barrot & Sipacio, 2016, p.142).

Note:

These are not the only critical approaches you can use. Other
approaches in writing a critique include postmodern criticism, post-
colonial criticism, structuralism, psychological criticism, gender criticism,
ecocriticism, biographical criticism, historical criticism, mythological
criticism, and deconstructionist criticism.
According to Barrot and Sipacio (2016), writing a critique can be
structure below.

Structure of a Critique
 Let Us Practice

Task 3: Guess What?

Directions: Read the following items carefully. Choose the letter of the best
answer.

1. What do you call the different perspectives when looking into a piece of
literary work?

a. Literary Theories b. Critical Approach

c. Literary Criticism d. None of the above

2. A literary or artwork does not hold any meaning until it is read or seen by
a reader or an audience. What criticism asserts that a great deal of meaning
in a text or in an art lies with how the reader or audience responds to it?

a. Reader-Response b. Reading-Response
c. Responsive-Reading d. Audience-Response

3. The key understanding to a text is through the text itself. This critique
emphasizes the form of a literary text or artwork determines its meaning,
focusing on structure and how they work to create meaning. What is it?

a. Formalist b. Feminist
c. Marxist d. All of the above

4. Literary works and artworks showcases economic classes among its

subjects. What type of criticism argues that social context must be considered
when analyzing a text or art?

a. Formalist b. Feminist
c. Marxist d. All of the above

5. This type of critique reveals that aspects of our culture are patriarchal. It
asserts that most “literature or artwork” throughout time has been written by
men, for men.

a. Formalist b. Feminist
c. Marxist d. All of the above
 Let Us Practice More!

Task 4: Picture Me Out!

Directions: Analyze and interpret the given picture below and answer the given
questions that follow. Write your answer on your answer sheets.

“Mag-ina sa Tabi ng Duyan.” Painting by Nestor Leynes.

(Retrived: https://filipiknow.net/sa-ugoy-ng-duyan/)

1. What do you see in the picture?

2. How do you think Filipino women are represented in this photo?
Photo Analysis Rubric

Criteria Awesome A Good Effort A Work in Just

Progress Beginning
10 pts. 8 pts. 6 pts. 4 pts.
Objective Makes a Makes a Makes a Descriptions
complete and detailed detailed are not
detailed description of description of detailed or
description of most of the some of the complete.
the subject subject matter subject
matter and/or and/or matter
elements seen in elements seen and/or
the photograph. in the elements
photograph. seen in the
photograph.
Interpretation Forms a
Forms a Relates how Finds it
reasonable somewhat the difficult to
hypothesis reasonable photograph interpret the
about what is hypothesis makes meaning of
viewed in the about what is him/her feel the
photograph and viewed in the personally. photograph.
is able to
photograph
support this
and is able to
with evidence
support this
from the
with some
photograph. evidence from
the
photograph.
Source: http://www.cyberbee.com/artifacts/Photo%20Analysis%20Rubric.pdf

Let Us Remember
Task 5: Let’s Venn It!

Directions: Using the Venn diagram below, choose two types of critique and
compare and contrast them (Formalist, Feminist, Marxist, and Reader response).

Similarities
Diffirences

Commonalities
 Let Us Assess

Task 6: You Talk!

Directions: Read the poem “Dead Stars” by H.O. Santos. Analyze and critique
the poem using either Formalism, Feminism, Marxism, or Reader-response on your
answer sheet (250-300 words).

DEAD STARS
(for Paz Marquez Benitez)
by H.O. Santos
If I still think of her today
Why didn’t I tell her long ago?
I could have saved all wondering
For I’d have peace if I did know.
If I had learned of metaphors
Before I wondered ’bout the stars
Would I have written verses then
And worshipped Venus instead of Mars?
Literary Critique
___________________
(Type of Criticism)
_______________________________
_______________________________
_______________________________
_______________________________
_______________________________
_______________________________

If I had found my tongue could rhyme _______________________________

Would I have shown a face sans mask, ____
A heart unsure? But woe is me–
I’ll never know, I didn’t ask.

Source: https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/poems_staff/stars2.html

Rubric for the Critique

Exceeds Meets Approaching

Criterion Outstanding Expectations Expectations Expectations Unacceptable
5 pts. 4 pts. 3pts. 2 pts. 1pt.
Introduction Introduct- Introductio Introduction No
grabs ion sparks n provides or conclusion introduction
Introduction attention and some context for does not flow
provides interest and the with the
meaningful effectively argument argument of
context to a introduces but is the paper
persuasive reasonable obvious
argument argument and/or
basic
Thesis Argument is Thesis Thesis is a Thesis Thesis not
clearly presents a plausible demonstrates evident
articulated reasonable argument; misundersta
and opinion, contains a nding of the
persuasive, argument is legitimate prompt or
contains an opinion, but text
 original clear and somewhat
opinion focused broad and
basic
Topic Topic Topic Topic Topic Topic
Sentences sentences sentences sentences sentences sentences
and contribute to articulate are present show not evident
Transitions the highly precise and make misundersta
persuasive argument; an nding or
nature of the logically argument prompt or
argument linked to connected text
thesis to the
thesis;
however,
ideas are
obvious and
basic
Evidence You have Your Evidence is Evidence Little or no
chosen, for evidence is present, but chosen does evidence;
the most believable superficial not support
part, the best and thesis/topic
evidence to convincing sentences
support your and
point supports
your
argument
Commentary Creative/ Analysis is Analysis Ideas lack Analysis not
original ideas believable supports development; present
and insights; and your misundersta simply plot
extensive convincing, argument, nding of summary
commentary, a few but ideas prompt or
refreshing; assertions are obvious text; illogical
goes beyond may lack and basic argument;
obvious and specific
basic examples,
commentary but
assertions
are still
clearly
connected
to the
argument
Style, Sophisticated Effectively Blend Problems Serious
Vocabulary, vocabulary; blends quoted with problems
Sentence sentence direct material sentence with
Structure variety; quotation smoothly; clarity, coherence
quotations with but redundancy; and
are smoothly explanatory sentence some quotes sentence
blended words and structure stand alone; clarity; most
phrases to lack some vague sentences
introduce variety- sentences; need
the basic and little use of revision;
quotation obvious; class most quotes
and attempts to vocabulary or stand alone
facilitate incorporate sentence and lack
narrative more variety introduction
flow; still advanced / connection
attempting vocabulary to the paper
advanced
vocabulary
 Mechanics Perfect! (or 1 Effective Minor Several Major
and or 2 minor punctuatio problems distracting spelling,
Coherence errors) n; close to with problems grammar,
perfect coherence, with spelling, punctuation
grammar, grammar, errors;
spelling, punctuation, distracts and
punctuatio coherence; interferes
n, but does citations with
not incorrect understandi
interfere ng of paper;
with the citations
understand nonexistent
-ing of
paper
Source: https://www.edutopia.org/sites/default/files/pdfs/stw/edutopia-stw-yesprep-
rubric-literary-analysis.pdf

Let Us Enhance

Task 7: You Complete Me!

Directions: Using your own words, make a brief description about the
type of literary critique given below.

Criteria: Content--------------------3 pts.

Grammar structure------2 pts
Total 5 pts

Formalism

Reader- Feminism
response
Critique

Marxism
 Let Us Reflect

You did a great job in completing our module! Kudos to your hard work!
Let us look back from where we have started and complete the chart below.
Let us reflect towards your journey in learning the critical approaches in
writing a critique.

I thought....

• What were your misconceptions about the topic prior to taking the
lesson?

I learned that..

• What additional learning have you had after taking up this lesson in
terms of skills and attitude?
 Task 6: You Talk!
Answers may vary.
Task 7. You Complete Me!
Answers may vary.
Task 5: Let’s Venn It! Task 4: Picture Me Out!
Answers may vary. Answers may vary.
Task 3. Guess What? Task 1: Find it Out!
1. B
2. A 1. F
3. A 2. F
4. C 3. F
5. B 4. T
5. F
Answer key to Activities
 References

Book

Barrot, J. & Sipacio, P., Communicate Today English for Academic &
Professional Purposes for Senior High School. Quezon City: C & E
Publishing, Inc., 2016

Online Sources

https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/stories/stars.htm

https://depositphotos.com/2583991/stock-photo-cartoon-teacher-
woman.html

https://filipiknow.net/sa-ugoy-ng-duyan/

http://www.cyberbee.com/artifacts/Photo%20Analysis%20Rubric.pdf

https://www.sushidog.com/bpss/poems_staff/stars2.html

https://www.edutopia.org/sites/default/files/pdfs/stw/edutopia-stw-
yesprep-rubric-literary-analysis.pdf

Other Sources

DepEd Most Essential Learning Competency Guide in English for Academic

and Professional Purposes.

For inquiries or feedback, please write or call:

Department of Education – Region XI

F. Torres St., Davao City

Telefax:

Email Address: lrms.regionxi@deped.gov.ph